


Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By Lydia B. Slade.Frodo is unhappy. Sam is worried about him.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Kudos: 8
Collections: Least Expected





	Pleasures and Terrors of Domestic Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: The title belongs to some art book we used to have lying around the house. Everything else belongs to Tolkien's estate and possibly to New Line Cinema. I'm not making money off any of it, so please don't sue me.  
>  Story Notes: Set in early fall, a few weeks before Frodo leaves for the Havens. Mainly book canon, but the physical descriptions of the characters are, obviously, from the movie.

"Mr. Frodo, your supper's ready!" Sam calls. He knocks on Frodo's bedroom door, balancing the supper tray in the other hand. There's no answer. He knocks again, louder. "Mr. Frodo?" He pushes the door open, cautiously, but the room is dark and Frodo's not there. 

Sam checks the bed anyway, making sure, but it's empty. He steps back into the hall, feeling unreasonably worried. He's been anxious about Frodo lately; Frodo's been so quiet and withdrawn. He hardly comes out of his room these days. When Sam goes to check on him, he sometimes seems to be writing, but more often, he's just sitting quietly by the window, looking out into the garden. He hasn't been eating or sleeping well, and some of the prettiness has melted away from his face; there are hollows under his cheekbones now, and dark smudges under his eyes. 

On those rare occasions when Sam and Rosie manage to coax him out of his room he sits staring blankly into the fire. Or else he tries to be cheerful, which is worse. Sam hates the brittle falseness of Frodo's forced smiles; it hurts him, and frightens him, to see Frodo like this. Sam has tried to talk to Frodo, but his words are clumsy and he doesn't know what to say. He can feel Frodo getting further away from him, all the time. 

Sam realizes that he's standing in a dark hallway, leaning against the wall with the supper tray in his hand and tears in his eyes. He must look like a fool. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and walks quickly down the hall. He glances into the sitting room, the kitchen; Rosie's in there, scrubbing a protesting Elanor. Sam smiles, but he doesn't see Frodo. He pushes open the front door and steps out into the twilit garden. "Mr. Frodo?" 

"I'm here, Sam," comes Frodo's faint voice calling. Sam feels an unexpected quiver in his chest when Frodo says his name. Frodo's voice sounds more normal than it has in many days, and the lilt of it reminds Sam of the sweet days here at Bag End, before their quest began. He remembers Frodo then--Frodo, healthy and laughing and always so unbearably lovely, all wide blue eyes and flushed pink cheeks--and he grits his teeth to force aside that train of thought. 

He turns to look in the direction of Frodo's voice. Frodo is sitting cross-legged on the crest of the hill over Bag End, apparently watching the sun set. Sam takes a deep breath, watching the pink light catch on the delicate lines of Frodo's face. Frodo looks thin and tired, but his face is, still and always, beautiful to Sam. 

Sam climbs to stand next to Frodo. "Mr. Frodo? I've brought you a bit of supper." 

Frodo turns on him that full, radiant smile that Sam remembers from years past, and Sam finds himself blushing like a boy. "Thank you, Sam," says Frodo, still smiling. He takes the tray and pats the grass next to him. "Won't you sit down and join me?" 

"Of course, Mr. Frodo," says Sam, sitting down a little awkwardly. Frodo takes a bite of stew and offers some to Sam; Sam shakes his head. "You eat it, Mr. Frodo. You've been getting too thin, lately." Frodo acknowledges Sam's fussing over him with another sweet, affectionate smile, and Sam feels his ears turn red. 

They sit in comfortable silence as Frodo eats. Their shoulders touch. The sun sinks lower and a wind comes up. Sam feels Frodo shiver next to him, and his fingers automatically go to the buttons of his waistcoat. He pulls it off and drapes it round Frodo's narrow shoulders. "There, Mr. Frodo, you'll be warmer now," Sam says, seeing Frodo open his mouth to offer a polite protest. "But hadn't we better go inside soon? You oughtn't to be sitting out here in the damp; you'll catch a chill, Mr. Frodo." 

"I'm all right, Sam," says Frodo, leaning against Sam's shoulder with a soft sigh. "It's good to be out in the fresh air. I don't want to keep you out here if you're cold, though." 

"I'm fine," says Sam, and means it. He's only in his shirtsleeves and the wind is blowing chill, but it's more than worth it to feel the soft pressure of Frodo's shoulder against his, to see his master's face peaceful and familiar once again. 

But as the sky slowly darkens and the shadows lengthen around them, Sam sees the lines of strain re-forming around Frodo's mouth, and that awful blank look begins to come back into his eyes. Sam's throat cramps painfully. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he blurts out, "what's the matter? What's wrong?" 

Frodo stirs, looks up at Sam with wide blue eyes. "What do you mean, Sam?" 

Sam swallows hard. "You seem so unhappy all the time, Mr. Frodo." Frodo looks away and doesn't respond. Sam shifts uncomfortably. The ground is slightly damp under him, but it's a clear night and there's a scent of grass and flowers in the air. 

After a moment, Sam says, "I didn't think it'd be like this. I thought we'd get back to Bag End and everything would be like it was; or anyhow that's what I was hoping for, all along." Sam sniffles slightly. Frodo is looking at him now, intently and thoughtfully, leaning his chin on his hand. Sam looks at him imploringly. "What's wrong, Mr. Frodo? You can tell me, tell your Sam." 

Frodo sighs, looking down at the ground. He glances back at Sam and lays a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "Oh, Sam," he says, turning away. "I don't even know where to begin." Sam waits, watching Frodo's face. Frodo seems to be deep in difficult thoughts; his eyebrows are drawn together anxiously, and there's a pained quality to the set of his mouth. His hand slips off Sam's shoulder and onto the grassy ground. Sam picks up that hand; it feels small and cold, and he chafes it gently with both of his own. Frodo absently returns the caress, stroking Sam's palm with his thumb, and Sam's breathing speeds up. 

Finally Frodo looks up and his hand stills. "Do you remember what it was like on that journey?" he asks, with a sudden passion that startles Sam. "What it was like to be hunted--to be watched, to live in constant terror? Constant horror? And then, the joy, the joy when it was over--" 

Frodo jumps up, begins pacing restlessly back and forth. "I can't sleep for remembering it, Sam. And there's nothing in the Shire to distract me from it, nothing! What is there for me to do here? I thought I could find peace here, but everything slips by me like shadows and mist. I don't see anything, Sam, I can't feel any of it. Nothing matches the--the intensity of what I remember. There's _nothing_ here!" 

Frodo stops pacing. He stands in front of Sam, panting slightly. His face is flushed. He looks at Sam keenly. "Do you understand, Sam? Do you?" He pauses for a moment, then goes on. "It's as though I've passed through fire, and been burned away. And there's nothing now that could make me feel anything, except perhaps the heat of that same fire." He stops, maybe to take a breath. 

"I do understand, sir," Sam says earnestly, looking up at Frodo. He's disturbed by Frodo's words, but he understands. He too has moments when he's overwhelmed by what he remembers-- moments when he's working in the garden under the sun, or playing with Elanor in the Bag End kitchen, when suddenly some sound or color will call up, unbidden, some vivid and tangible memory of his long ordeal. 

These incidents always leave him shaken. He thinks of what it must be like for Frodo--always more delicate than Sam, and also much more deeply hurt--to be constantly buffeted by such overpowering visions and sensations. 

As Frodo stands silently before him, Sam's mind turns to the things that come back to him most vividly: the terror of the Nazgul, the choking reek of Mordor and the stench of Shelob's lair. With a painful throb the memory of Shelob brings back to him his bitter and terrible pain when he thought that Frodo lay before him dead; he remembers his grief, and then the sudden flare of hope that tore through him when he heard the Orcs say of his master, "He isn't dead!"--and the bliss that followed when at last he found Frodo, alive beyond hope in the terrible tower. 

As Sam sits quietly on the cold grass, other memories rush back over him as well: the endless weariness and thirst, as they trudged through Mordor; his anxiety about his master; the terror that cramped his stomach at every sudden noise, fearing every moment that they would be seen by spies of the Enemy, and the final numbness. 

And, suddenly, he remembers other things: the light shining through the trees in Lothlorien; the beauty of Galadriel; and, too, the heat of Frodo's sleeping body, burning into him, as they rested together on the foothills of Mount Doom, clinging to each other on the edge of death. Sam blinks back tears, and looks up at Frodo. Frodo is turned away from him, looking up at the sky, and Sam can't see his face. 

It's true, Sam thinks, that there have been few moments in the Shire that matched, as Frodo put it, the _intensity_ of what came before. There have been some. Sam thinks of his wedding night, of his first clumsy, ecstatic embraces with Rose. He remembers standing over Rosie as she struggled through the birth of Elanor, how terribly afraid he was, seeing only the blood and the pain in his wife's face--and then finally it was over, and he stood with his beautiful baby daughter in his arms. 

Those moments cut through the fog in his mind. They helped to push aside the memories of anguish--and joy, too--that had been burned into his brain. And such moments of high emotion, combined with his everyday cares and fears and his love of his wife and daughter and garden--have all tended to shield him from the full brunt of what he remembers. 

Frodo, Sam realizes with a pang, has nothing similar to comfort himself with--nothing but, perhaps, the presence of Sam and Rose and all their friends. And yet, for no reason that Sam can understand, Frodo seems to be pulling further and further away from them all, withdrawing from the world and even from his Sam. 

Sam opens his mouth, meaning to tell Frodo something, but he shuts it again uncertainly. What he really wants to say is that he loves Frodo, more than anything in the world except, perhaps, his daughter. He wants to say that Frodo is in him, under his skin and in his blood, and that he can't bear it when Frodo treats him coldly or turns away from him. He wants to beg Frodo not to leave. But he doesn't have the words. So he sits quietly, looking up at Frodo's slender silhouette, watching the night-breeze blow dark clouds across the moon. There are a few fireflies around them now, winking in the dimness. 

The door to Bag End creaks open. "Sam? Mr. Frodo?" calls Rosie anxiously from the bottom of the hill. "Where are you?" 

Sam glances up at Frodo, who doesn't seem to have heard, and turns towards her. "We're up here, Rosie dear," he calls back. "I've just been keeping Mr. Frodo company while he eats his supper." Rosie looks up at them, and Sam sees his wife's worried, pretty face illuminated by the light of a lantern she holds. 

"Well, don't be too long then," she says, and turns to go back inside. "Goodnight, Mr. Frodo," she adds. Frodo doesn't respond. There's a moment of silence, and then the door clicks closed behind her. 

The crickets are singing, and Sam listens to them for a few minutes. A breeze blows through his hair, through his thin shirt, and he shivers slightly. He's beginning to feel a bit chilled. 

Then Frodo says suddenly, "And the _Ring_ ," in a surprisingly husky, almost seductive voice. Sam looks up at him, startled and disturbed-- Frodo sounds as if he's begun speaking in the middle of some complicated inner monologue. He barely seems aware of Sam's presence. Then Frodo turns to look intently into Sam's eyes. "Do you remember _It_?" Frodo asks in that same strangely passionate voice. "You carried it, for a little while. Do you remember how everything in the world narrowed down to it--how you couldn't feel anything except it scorching all the inside of your skull?" 

Frodo pauses, and Sam starts to say yes, yes he remembers, he remembers the feel of it sucking at his will and reason--but Frodo cuts him off. "I can't forget it," Frodo says slowly, turning his head up towards the moon. "It was everything, it was all through me, and now it's gone, the heat of it is gone. There's nothing but cold shadows left, there's nothing for me here. I can't stay here, Sam. I have to leave." 

Sam has been dreading those words--"I have to leave"--for a long time, and now he's heard them. He feels a painful wrench in his chest, and his face scrunches up; his eyes hurt. Sam presses his fists into his eyes, trying not to cry, trying not to make a sound, but he opens his mouth to take a breath and hears himself sob. 

Frodo turns to him immediately, looking distressed. "Oh, Sam, don't cry!" says Frodo, visibly upset. He kneels down in front of Sam, tugs Sam's hands away from his face, and pulls him into an awkward hug. "Don't cry," Frodo says again, tears in his own voice now, and Sam takes a deep breath; he feels as though he's choking on tears, smothering himself in Frodo's linen-covered shoulder. Frodo's hair is soft, tickling Sam's cheek, and it smells of cut grass. 

Sam feels Frodo shifting around, apparently trying to find a less awkward position, and for a moment Sam is uncomfortably aware of the way Frodo's body feels, moving against his. It doesn't help, either, that Frodo eventually settles down more or less in Sam's lap. His chest is pressed to Sam's, his legs are loosely around Sam's waist, and he's gently stroking Sam's back with his soft hands. Sam sniffles into the crook of Frodo's neck and tries to stop crying, but it's no use; he's been too unhappy for too long. And holding Frodo, like this, it's unbalancing in its intensity. They've barely touched in recent months. And now Sam can feel Frodo all along his body, Frodo's delicate warmth, and it's making all the surface of his skin tingle in a way that's not sexual but could be. 

"Shhh," Frodo says softly, pulling back a little to look at Sam. He cups Sam's face in his hands, pushes wet hair out of Sam's eyes. His fingers are cool on Sam's hot temples. He leans forward to lightly kiss the damp skin under Sam's swollen eyes, and Sam sits, as if transfixed, as Frodo's lips move slowly down over Sam's cheek, following the tracks of his tears. Frodo pauses over the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam takes a quick breath, and jerks his chin up so that their noses bump and their lips meet in a clumsy kiss. 

Frodo makes a little, startled sound. Then he kisses Sam back, hard. 

The air is cool, almost cold, around them, but Frodo's lips are warm and his half-open mouth is wet and wonderfully soft. Frodo's hot tongue pushes cautiously at Sam's lips, and Sam gasps slightly; he's immediately, achingly hard. He brings his hands up to cup Frodo's hot face. Frodo's slender fingers are already pushing through his hair; each time the pads of Frodo's finger-tips brush Sam's scalp, Sam feels goosebumps rising deliciously on the back of his neck. He shivers. His mouth comes open, just a bit, and Frodo slips his tongue inside. 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, feeling suddenly happy and just slightly delirious. He sucks, experimentally, on the tip of Frodo's tongue, and Frodo shudders when he does that; shudders and moans and pulls Sam closer to him. There's heat and hardness between Frodo's legs; Sam can feel it, just barely brushing his own, and his hips twitch with wanting to push forward against Frodo. But he doesn't dare to, not yet, and so they sit, for a long moment, kissing softly in the dark. 

Then suddenly Frodo's body stiffens and he pulls away, stumbling to his feet. Sam blinks, startled. The cold air is a shock against the warm place where Frodo had been nestled against his chest. "Frodo-- Mr... Frodo?" 

Frodo turns to him, and Sam is shocked by the unhappiness on his face. "I'm sorry, Sam," says Frodo miserably. "I shouldn't have done that. I had no right--" 

"No, Mr. Frodo! No--I wanted--" Sam scrambles to his feet, reaching out for Frodo. Now that the narcotic of Frodo's touch has been removed Sam's mind is a dizzy spinning blur; somewhere there's a low buzzing of guilt, but it's submerged by the heady wonder of the simple fact that Frodo had kissed him back--that Frodo, his beloved and beautiful Frodo, had squirmed into his arms and moaned into his mouth and clutched at Sam as though he wanted him there. 

Sam reaches out for Frodo, grabs Frodo's small, thin hand. "Mr. Frodo--please--" 

Frodo looks at him. "I'm sorry, Sam," he says again, tearfully. "I never meant--I know how you love Rose--" 

"I do," says Sam earnestly, his voice cracking a little. "I do love Rosie dearly. But--" He looks at Frodo and knows he doesn't have to say it. Frodo knows. And Sam knows, that Frodo wants this, that they both do; he looks at Frodo, and thinks of kissing him, thinks of pulling him down into the grass and rolling with him, rolling over and over through the sweet-smelling night until they're both dizzy and laughing and happy, like children, together. He strokes Frodo's palm with a gentle thumb. 

There are clouds half-covering the moon and in the dim light Frodo looks less pale and worn. His lips are still pink, his eyes still blue, and, trying not to think, Sam steps forward to put his hand on Frodo's cheek. Frodo's face tilts up towards Sam's. Sam looks at him for a moment, hesitating; then Frodo leans up and Sam leans down and they're kissing, once again. 

This time Frodo's mouth comes open almost immediately and his tongue is there again, hot and wet and sliding into Sam's mouth, and Sam breathes in loudly through his nose because he doesn't want to pull away. The heat between Sam's legs comes back in a sudden urgent rush. He has to force his fingers to relax their grip on Frodo's shoulders. Frodo is pressing up against him, clutching at his back, and Sam can feel Frodo's erection, nudging against his hip through the thick fabric of their breeches. It's making him dizzy. 

He slides his hands down over Frodo's back; he knows what he wants to do, but he's afraid that Frodo will think he's taking liberties, and for a moment his hands rest tentatively at the small of Frodo's back. Frodo makes an impatient sound in his throat. Then he bounces up against Sam; Sam, weak-kneed and standing on slippery grass, loses his balance and falls. Heavily, with Frodo on top of him. Their teeth click together painfully. 

"Ow," says Frodo. 

"Ah," says Sam, who has had the breath knocked out of him, and whose higher mental processes are largely nonfunctional due to the way Frodo's legs are tangled up with his. It isn't helping, either, that as they fell one of Sam's hands somehow landed lightly on Frodo's bottom. Frodo's pretty, rounded bottom, which feels wonderful and soft under Sam's hand. Sam is breathing so heavily that he's starting to feel lightheaded. His bottom lip is stinging; he sucks it into his mouth. Frodo is looking at him, blue eyes hot and intent; Sam lifts his head, and Frodo kisses him again, his warm tongue sweeping over Sam's sore lower lip. 

Frodo shifts on top of him, squirms so that his erection grinds against Sam's; Sam gasps into Frodo's mouth, and his eyes go wide for a moment before he squeezes them shut. His hands clench reflexively on Frodo's bottom; Frodo groans, and pushes harder against him. Sam feels intensely hot. His hips are moving helplessly. He's not going to last much longer, and Frodo, what will Frodo think if-- 

Sam slides a hand down between them, feeling blindly for Frodo's trouser buttons. He can't seem to find them. He slides his thumb up and down the velvet-covered ridge of Frodo's erection; Frodo squirms and moans, "Sam, _please_ ," and finally reaches down to undo them himself. Sam gulps as Frodo's erection springs up against his palm. He touches it, hesitantly; it's hard and curved and moist at the tip, and Sam can feel Frodo's heartbeat in the veins. He squeezes it gently. Frodo whimpers and pushes frantically into Sam's hand, and Sam only manages one firm stroke before Frodo comes, hard, murmuring something that might or might not be Sam's name. 

Sam wipes his sticky hand awkwardly on the wet grass and puts his arms around Frodo. Frodo is a limp weight on top of him, half-asleep with his head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam lies quietly and tries not to seem as though he's asking for anything Frodo doesn't want to give. It's sweet to lie like this, sweet to hold Frodo in his arms, but Frodo's thigh is pressing between his legs and it's desperately hard for Sam not to squirm against it. Frodo shifts against him, moving as if in sleep, and Sam groans. 

Frodo hears and lifts his head; his face is pink and flushed and very beautiful, and he smiles at Sam. "I love you," he says drowsily. 

"I love you too, Mr. Frodo," Sam responds, feeling ridiculously happy, and Frodo kisses him again, kisses him with a wet and open mouth. Frodo's hand is on his chest, hot through Sam's thin shirt; he's rubbing his thumb over Sam's nipple, and Sam writhes underneath him and makes frantic little noises into Frodo's mouth. Frodo laughs softly and releases him, sliding down Sam's body, and Sam is about to protest, about to tell Frodo, no, it's all right, you don't have to do that, but then Frodo presses his hot mouth to the front of Sam's pants and Sam can only wriggle and squirm and gasp like a fish in a net. 

Frodo is carefully unfastening Sam's trouser buttons, and Sam is trying to hold still but the movement of the cloth is teasing at him, and Frodo's fingers brush against him periodically, and finally the last button comes undone and Sam's erection pops up to bounce against Frodo's chin. Frodo laughs again. Then he kisses it, wraps his hand around the base and rubs his lips along the underside of it, and Sam groans and squirms and clenches his fists and tries his best not to come less than ten seconds in. And finally Frodo opens his mouth, slides his tongue along the head of Sam's cock and sucks, and Sam can't hold back anymore; something hot and sweet pulses through him and he's coming, hard and blissfully, into Frodo's mouth. 

After a moment Sam opens his eyes. Frodo is sitting up next to him, licking his lips and looking very tired and rather sad, but he smiles at Sam when he sees Sam looking. Sam reaches down to refasten his trousers, and sits up. He touches Frodo's shoulder hesitantly. "Ah-- sir? You're not hurt, are you?" 

"No, I'm fine, Sam, that was lovely," Frodo says, but he still sounds sad. 

"I love you," says Sam, not knowing what else to tell him. 

Frodo looks as though something is hurting him, and he doesn't respond. But when Sam tentatively holds out his arms, Frodo leans into them, and they lie down together with Frodo's head on Sam's chest. 

After a while Frodo's breathing goes quiet and even and Sam supposes he must be asleep, or pretending to be. Either way, Sam himself lies awake for some time. He strokes Frodo's back gently and tries to relax enough to close his eyes; he looks up at the moon and listens to the bats squeaking as they zigzag back and forth. The crickets are still singing, all around them, and every now and then an owl hoots softly in the trees. Sam sighs. 

He has no idea, he realizes, what he's going to do, nor even what he wants to do, not about Frodo, nor Rosie, nor himself. When Frodo had looked at him and said "I love you" Sam had hoped that maybe somehow everything would be all right, but he remembers the unhappiness in Frodo's face and he doubts that it will be. One way or another he's going to lose them, Frodo and Rosie, one or the other or both, and even with Frodo lying in his arms Sam feels miserable and cold. 

It occurs to him, shortly before he falls asleep, that what he wants is not to leave Rosie, but to love her in a way that doesn't bind him to this place, to this green quiet patch of Middle-earth, much as he loves it here. When he remembers Frodo's words--"I have to leave"-- Sam wishes, hopelessly and wistfully, that he were still free to say, "I'm coming with you."


End file.
